Chapter 43
MILA
The café is warm, but Mila still feels a chill when she sees her.
Janet Eagan-Tilbury has already claimed her territory when Mila arrives—a prime table by the expansive picture window overlooking bustling Capitol Avenue. Her dark hair is swept back into a flawless twist, a pair of Chanel sunglasses resting beside her cup of tea.
Mila stands inside the door for a moment, tugging down the sleeves of her chunky oatmeal-colored sweater.
It’s soft, cozy, and definitely not couture.
She paired it with simple jeans and boots that still had dirt on the soles when she left the house.
She’d agonized over what to wear, hovered in front of the mirror for too long, even considered a dress for half a second.
Then she decided she wouldn’t be putting on airs for anyone.
Mila walks over, spine straight, chin lifted. Janet looks up, and there’s a flicker of something across her sharp features—surprise, maybe, or perhaps the grudging respect of one queen recognizing another. It’s hard to tell with women like her.
“Janet,” Mila says smoothly, pulling out the chair across from her. “Thanks for waiting.”
Janet offers a small, restrained smile. “Punctuality is a virtue. I don’t mind being early.”
Mila nods and settles in. The air between them is warm from the café heater, but maintains a chilly edge. She orders a coffee when the server swings by, just to have something to hold on to.
Janet’s gaze sweeps over her like a quiet evaluation. “You look well,” she says after a pause.
Mila almost snorts but bites it back. “Thank you.”
They exchange a few more pleasantries. Janet asks how Mila’s enjoying Hartford, how she enjoys working for Jaryd Hollis, how she spends her time.
She compliments the way Mila handled the gala—“exquisite attention to detail,” “a touch of levity without sacrificing elegance”—praise that feels less like warmth and more like a line from a recommendation letter.
Mila accepts it with a careful smile, hands curled around her cup.
But eventually, the script wears thin.
Mila sets her coffee down. “Why did you want to meet?”
Janet doesn’t flinch. She dabs the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin even though she hasn’t taken a sip of her tea. “I thought you’d be aware,” she says calmly, “that I pulled a few strings for you.”
Mila’s pulse jumps. “I am,” she says, careful and cool. “And I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Janet says, not unkindly. “I did it for Theodore.”
Her eyes sparkle as she adds, “To be honest, the board required little to no convincing. Your event was wonderful.”
Mila studies her from across the table, trying to reconcile this poised, elegant woman with whatever image she had built in her mind of Theo’s mother.
Janet sits like a statue, every part of her pristine, but beneath the careful composure, something trembles.
It’s there in the way her fingers lace too tightly in her lap, in the barely perceptible flicker behind her cool, assessing gaze when it finally rises to meet Mila’s.
“I miss him,” she says, quieter now. “He doesn’t visit. He never comes to family events. Hasn’t in years. He calls once a week, but it’s perfunctory. Obligatory.”
Mila doesn’t speak right away. Her first instinct is wariness—because where was this version of Janet when Theo was a teenager, desperate to be seen? When he was clawing his way through junior leagues, off the family’s radar?
“I know he keeps his distance,” Janet continues. “I imagine you know more about why than I do. I’ve made…mistakes. I could’ve been softer with him. But Theodore’s father—”
She cuts off, shakes her head as if that might erase the memory.
“He’s a difficult man,” she says. “Always had high expectations for his sons. I deferred to him too often, I think. Now I regret that. I regret a lot of things. His speech at the gala made me realize how much we’d failed him. How he turned to hockey when his family let him down.”
Janet doesn’t cry, but there’s a brittleness to her voice now.
“I thought,” she says slowly, eyes drifting toward the window, “that now that he has someone to accompany him, he might be more inclined to spend time with us.”
Mila’s chest tightens.
She sees what Janet’s doing instantly. Though Janet’s regret and her grief may be real, Mila sees the calculation behind her words. This is her leverage.
I helped you, her words say. Now, you help me.
The implication bristles under Mila’s skin like sandpaper.
“Theo doesn’t avoid his family because he lacks company,” Mila says. “He stays away because he’s treated like a problem no one wants to deal with. You’re aware that Conrad still torments him.”
Janet’s mouth tightens, but she nods once.
“I will handle Conrad.”
It’s said simply. As if that’s all it takes. A promise born too late.
“I was hoping you might come to our family’s Fourth of July gathering,” she continues. “We’ve hosted for years. Theodore used to love running wild with his cousins on the lawn.”
“I’m Canadian,” Mila says flatly.
Janet’s lips twitch in a faint smile. “Surely Canadians still enjoy champagne and lobster rolls?”
Mila feels that pang again—equal parts frustration and sympathy. The woman across from her is calculating, yes, but not cruel. But it doesn’t change what Theo’s endured.
He wouldn’t like this. Her meeting his mother behind his back. She knows how deep the wounds run when it comes to his family. How careful he is, how much he’s chosen distance over damage.
“If Theo wants to see you,” Mila says, her voice quiet but firm, “that will be his decision. I won’t push him.”
Janet inclines her head. “I understand.”
Mila pauses, then softens, the edge in her voice giving way to something gentler.
“You can’t rewrite the past, Mrs. Eagan-Tilbury,” she says. “But you can meet him halfway.”
Janet blinks, as though startled by the clarity of that.
Mila reaches into her bag and pulls out a small envelope. Plain, unmarked. She slides it across the table with a quiet finality.
Janet glances at it but doesn’t open it. Her fingers rest on top, perfectly still.
“This is what I can offer,” Mila says. “You can take the next step, or not. That’s your choice.”
Janet looks at her for a long moment, the silence thick between them. And then, finally, she nods once.
Mila stands. She buttons her coat but leaves the coffee half full on the table. As she walks away, she doesn’t look back.
Behind her, Janet sits motionless, the envelope still clutched in her hand.